Same story, different page; same journey different mile

I realize that I haven't really posted anything about ministry week besides my random musings, so, here we go.


All of my friends have heart wrenching stories about learning to love from homeless men or amazing testimonies about leading whole families to Christ, and I wish that I could relay something along those lines. I wish that I could tell you that I came to realize what Jesus meant when He said "the least of these." I wish that my eyes would shine as I tell you stories about a homeless vet named Johnny. I wish that God had given me any instructions for the week besides "Wait and listen."

That's a lie though. I don't wish. I don't question that God knew exactly what He was doing. I don't deny the fact that the lessons my friends learned were ones I've learned in the past. On the streets of Portland, on the Rez, in Denver and Mexico, Pasco, Kellogg, and Nicaragua, at Royal Family and through years of Church Camp and teaching Sunday school, I gained much of the wisdom that they did this week. Sometimes, though, I think it would be easier if I weren't always on a different page.

It wasn't that God didn't break my heart this week; the problem was that He ripped it to shreds.


I'm not sure that I have the words to even begin to explain, and, if I have the words, I'm not sure that I have the courage to use them.

The short story is this. If I was discontent with much of the American church before we left, I have no way to politely categorize what I'm feeling now. There has to be some way of phrasing it all without sounding like a revolutionary, some way to make it clear that I don't want to reinvent the wheel simply as an act of rebellion towards the generations that have gone before me, but I haven't found it yet.

I could try to describe to you the passion that churns in my chest at each new sign of consumerism that slips -- sometimes loudly heralded -- into a church sanctuary. I could try to tell you how my heart breaks in agony at the sight of a new piece of equipment, knowing that the money spent there was money not spent on the needs of a hurting human being. I could explain the fear of an almighty GOD who demands the glory that we have given to our things. I could have you watch the end of "Schindler's List," and, next time you get dressed for church, consider how many eternal lives the cost of your ring or your clothes could have saved. I could make you read Isaiah 58, and read it over and over until it becomes a part of you and haunts your every waking thought.

But I don't know how to communicate such things. Church is more than we've made it. Christ is more than we've made Him out to be. And this world is more than we'll ever understand.

If this is just the fire of youth, then I never want to let the flame go out.